Idyll
- Details
- Written by Eve Moore
- Views: 1909
Idyll
I sit with my tea
in the morning beams,
gazing on the bounty of
my garden, small and brimming,
the blooms, the bees, the hummingbirds,
the petals glistened with
new day shine.
A roar bursts suddenly
behind me, neighboring lawn
being scaped by a crew at this early hour.
My immediate response to the ear-splitting
cacophony is to abandon my perch for
one less racket-strewn inside.
As immediately I feel for an alternative.
[If reflexively, for the groundwork
has been laid deep within
for this reflex.]
Keening my gaze on that which is not
deafening, feet at rest on a favored rock —
mother quartz prized many moons ago from
a beloved spot far north of my idyll — I stay.
Suddenly aware of the magic
act I have performed.
The magic of choosing.
Stillness, peace,
amidst the fray.
A magic conjured
as I recognize the agency
of my focus in a reality that is
ceaselessly vying for its attention.
This is the ‘battlefield,' I see.
Ground zero for what we reckon
as for or against. Given or forced,
option or none at all. Limited,
or a choosing only between.
Sticky wickets that could catch my form
behaving in lock-step with their
warring, dislocating polarities,
ever this or that.
When we are universes,
hosting universes.
Replete with choice points whose constellations lie not only
in the primal astronomy of mind, but of heart
and soul, in truth — conscious or un.
Free-ranging.
As whales know, clouds
and their teeming raindrops,
snow geese and butterflies,
dandelion seedlings.
It is the current and currency, this
choosing, most prized by a world lost to a sea
of distracting objects — top hats, plastic wands —
an ocean of madding tumult:
here, here...
And here. Where I am, and
most wish to be, my
preference.
Still intrusive, the machine din behind
me, motors' mouths gobbling furiously,
it doesn’t intrude on my subject,
my soft, selected focus.
Doesn’t affect the beauty before me —
the wonders of flower
and forager.
Can’t touch the magic I hold,
no wand necessary.
It has no power over
my presence; for I have,
power, in my presence.
A peace that passeth all my
understanding active just
under my awareness
and ever in it.
Disruption of which
is not possible
without my
consent.
Should the uproar be right in front
of me, requiring my attention, I’d
be organically compelled to
engage otherwise.
But as it isn’t
and the morning is fine,
I find myself free
to feast on the
sweet of the
flowers,
too.
“...And that has made
all the difference.”
—Robert Frost, "The Road Not Taken"
∞/∞
Eve Moore ©2023
© Photo: Eve Moore
Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.
For more of Eve Moore's amazing and heart centered poetry and writings, click here!
http://www.crystalwind.ca/eve-moore
“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix
This poem/prose was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.
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